


Only Once

by silverstorms



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, F/M, no one writes for this pairing but I love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5432672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverstorms/pseuds/silverstorms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiona lets Nico in one last time. (Takes place shortly after Natasha's death)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Once

**Author's Note:**

> Nico/Fiona doesn't seem to be a big pairing around here, but I personally love them together. 
> 
> My tumblr url is ichooseyousimonsnow, if you'd like to join me in crying over Simon and Baz. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

It was only once.

I swear it. Just once. One week after, two weeks after… I don’t know. After we healed Baz but long before he stopped crying, I know that much. After I started drinking and before I stopped. Somewhere in between anger and depression. (Supposedly you hit _acceptance_ at some point, but I’m not sure I’ll ever get there.)

Truth is, it wouldn’t have happened if I’d been sober and in my right mind… well, I’m never really in my right mind, and rarely sober. Maybe it’s better to say that if you’d been in my place, you wouldn’t have let him in. But I’m not you, Natasha, and I never could be.

So I let him in. Or rather, I didn’t slam the door in his face when he came knocking. And then it started raining, and… well, he was getting all wet.

But the thing is, you never liked him, Tasha. And I always did. As you well knew (and never understood.) He was always too powerful for his own good. A firecracker. A ticking bomb. You know me, Natasha, there’s nothing I like better than an explosion.

I was sprawled out on the carpet of my apartment, drinking straight out of the bottle, when I heard the knock at the door. Figured it could be one of yours, so I dragged myself to the door, threw it open, and there he was.

Ragged. Tired. Red-eyed. Fidgety as ever… twisting the cuff of his jacket, chewing his lip, tapping his fingers… a real mess, he was, my good old Nicky.

“I didn’t do it,” he said, the moment I opened the door-- fast-talking, like he thought I wasn’t going let him talk for long. Probably shouldn’t have, come to think of it. But I did. “I didn’t do it, Fi, I didn’t.”

I stared at him for a moment, because there he was, after all those years. Standing on my doorstep, red-eyed and shaking.

“I didn’t do it,” he repeated, like a broken record.

“What do you take me for, some kind of fool?” I spat, once I’d processed the idea that he was real. “‘Course you didn’t. You wouldn’t send them after Ebb any more than I’d send them after Tasha.”

He blinked at me. “You believe me.”

“I always did,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “Until you turned into a traitor, that is.”

“Fiona,” he said, taking a step towards me. “I--”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I said, shaking my head. “You made your goddamn choice. Now live with it.”

He closed his mouth and fell back a little.

“What do you want, Nicky?” The old nickname slipped out before I could help it. I clamped my mouth shut and folded my arms across my chest.

“I don’t know,” he said. He was so pale, Natasha, so pale and tired and drawn. It was awful to look at, but I guess I probably looked the same. We were both messy and worn and tired, shadows of our younger selves.

And then it started to rain, heavy droplets splattering onto our skin. For a moment, we just stood there. Then I jerked my head towards the doorway.

“Come on,” I said.

He blinked at me. “What?”

“Just…” I grabbed him by the wrist and tugged on it. His skin was icy cold under my fingers, and I flinched when I remembered why, but I didn’t let go-- just yanked him in and slammed the door behind him.

“Coffee?” I said. “Or is it only blood for you now?” I stalked into the kitchen, kicking the dishwasher shut as I passed it, and grabbed the coffee pot.

“Coffee is… fine,” he said, hovering in the doorway.

I poured some into two mugs, then added a splash of whiskey to each for good measure. He took the cup, peered into it for a second or two, and then drained the whole thing in one long gulp.

I leaned against my kitchen counter. “So, _Nicky_ ,” I said, spitting out his nickname, turning it into something sharp and painful. “How’s death been treating you?”

“Do you want an apology?” he said. “Is that what this is about?”

“I don’t know what I want,” I said, swallowing a mouthful of coffee. It was bitter and lukewarm and completely disgusting. I stared at it for a second or two, then drank another mouthful.

“That’s hard to believe,” he said. “You always did.” He set his empty mug down on the table.“What am I doing here, Fiona?”

“ _You_ knocked on _my_ door,” I said.

“And you let me in,” he said. He was leaning against the doorframe, hands tucked into his pockets, head tilted to the side. There was a familiar expression on his face. Not quite his old cocky look, but close to it. The kind of look that used to make me punch him-- or kiss him.

So I crossed the room, until I was standing almost nose-to-nose with him, and tilted my head to the side, like a challenge. Like one of our old games.

“I did,” I said. “So what? You going to _bite_ me?”

“I might,” he said.

“By all means, then,” I said. “Go right ahead and try.”

He stared at me, and I stared at him. Monster. Traitor. One of them… and yet I just stood there and looked at him, like we were still teenagers chasing each other through the halls of Watford, making out in corners and closets.

“Fiona,” he said, sounding slightly strangled.

No matter how hard I looked at his lips, I couldn’t find any evidence of vampire fangs.

“Fiona,” he said, again.

“We probably shouldn’t do this,” I said.

“Are we _doing something_?” said Nico. “I hadn’t realized.”

“Shut up,” I said. And then I pulled him towards me and kissed him.

Because I was exhausted. A little drunk, or buzzed, or hungover, or whatever you want to call it. Because I was sad and desperate and he was _right there_ , the boy I’d been madly in love with as a teenager. (I know you thought I wasn’t really in love with him, Natasha, but I think that’s for me to decide.)

It was fast and hard and driven, a power play more than an act of desire-- at least, on my part. But he pulled me closer to him, right away, like he was afraid the kiss was going to end too quickly, like he thought the moment might last a little longer if he held me a little tighter. And then I began to feel it, that humming feeling deep in your bones when all you want in the world is one other person.

For a few splendid, glorious seconds, as his hands tangled in my hair and our bodies pressed together, he was all I was feeling. There was nothing else.

Then we broke apart, both of us gasping a little, him staring at me all wild-eyed. I thought about the first time I kissed him, back in the Watford days.

And then I thought about you.

I closed my eyes and imagined my bones turning into iron.

“Go.”

“Fiona...”

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I shouldn’t have--”

“You shouldn't have done a lot of things, but that’s not the point.” I kept my eyes closed and tried to make myself breathe steadily. “Just go. You know there’s not a chance for… for any of this. You’re one of them. And they killed her. My family is the only thing I still give a shit about, Nicky, and you know that I--”

He kissed me first that time, gently, like he was trying to tell me that he understood. I clung to him for a moment or two, savoring it, knowing it would be our last. Then he pulled away from me, and I heard the sound of his footsteps retreating, gently, quietly, out of my home, out of my life.

When I opened my eyes, he was gone.

“It’s better this way,” I said aloud, to my filthy, dead-end apartment. Much better.

And it is, Natasha. It is.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.


End file.
